Lost Pilgrims
by Muscarie
Summary: Sequel to When Grey Turns White. The new Istar has finally arrived, and must now find her place within the War of the Ring. But her passage to Middle Earth has left a breach between the two worlds, and now, the Son of Gondor must find his way back in a land plagued by the dead.


**So... This follows my story When Grey Turns White. In this story, we will have Marzia as she comes to Middle Earth and gets dragged into the war. On the other side of the ocean, we will have a familiar face come back to life to rather unexpected circumstances.**

**Warning: as the story involves zombies, there will be gore. Also, as I have watched the movies plenty of times and I am sure you have as well, I tend to skip passages or sum up scenes rather than rewrite them word for word. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the OCs**.

The coming of the lady Aërriel occurred in probably the worst circumstances possible. The arrival of an Istar was like an earthquake, like a gigantic tidal wave that washed everything away and changed the whole world order. The most important people from each race were to converse, and meet the Istar, and quickly ensure that their power would be on their side. Friends and foes alike, all needed to know what kind of wizard the new Istar would be. There had not been one since the early years of the world, and Gandalf knew that an upset wizard was a dangerous thing, and he realised that, ideally, the Istar would have arrived some place calm and peaceful, prompt to explanations and culture. Somewhere like Imladris. But, things being what they were, and with him arriving too late to stop the lady Arwen from fading into another world, Aërriel had arrived, and she had not awoken yet that they already had to go meet king Theoden of Rohan. Gandalf knew from Arwen that the Lost Pilgrim did not speak any known language of Middle Earth. Now, how she would react once she woke to find herself surrounded by four armed males was not a thought he liked to consider. She was young, he realised, and wondered if he had ever looked that young. Everyone had always known him as Gandalf the Grey, the old wandering wizard, and now they were getting to know him as Gandalf the White. The rebirth had not brought him any youth back, and he truthfully wondered whether he had ever been as young looking as the girl from the sea. She was slim, in a way which looked slightly unhealthy, like she had not eaten properly in a long time. She was obviously fairly strong, like one used to fighting. Her skin was pale on her high cheekbones, freckles covered her entire face and neck and he knew her eyes to be blue underneath her closed eyelids. She was rather tall for a daughter of the race of Men.

Her hands clung onto a staff, and he dared not try and dislodge it. Her knuckles were scratched, like she had been fighting gloveless. She wore clothes which looked designed for a male, and were in such a state that she must not have had the chance to wear something else in a couple of weeks.

Tilda and Bain had left the barge in which they had found her and, after receiving some lembas bread from Legolas and Aragorn, they had made a swift departure.

The three hunters and Gandalf the White now stood on the shore of the river Anduin, awkwardly surrounding the barge in which an oblivious wizard- witch?- slept holding onto a piece of wood.

"I must admit, Gandalf, I had not expected the Istar to be a young woman", said Aragorn.

"No, indeed, they prefer to come in the form of a scheming old man!" Said Gimli, who had not forgiven the wizard their extended trek around the hostile forest.

Gandalf just ignored them, as he always did when people said something he did not have a comeback to.

"This is Aërriel, you say, the Lady of the Sea?" asked Legolas. The story of the Lost Pilgrim, the lady from the sea, was one he had heard thousands of years ago, when he was but an Elfling.

"It is her. I believe her given name is Marzia."

"How did she come to be here? Have you said someone was sent to retrieve her? Why do so now that the whole world is at war?"

Gandalf avoided Aragorn's questioning eyes as he said: "Indeed, Aragorn, someone retrieved her from her world. She is from a place where they do not know Elves, and speak no language known in Middle Earth. Her land is torn by some evil which turns corpses into soldiers, and the people must fight their own loved ones or be eaten by them should death take them first. But she has a noble soul, and she is a fast learner."

"And who has told you that? The one who retrieved her?"

"It was."

"Who was it, Gandalf?"

The wizard resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Damn that ranger and his questions! It was like being around young Estel again.

"It was a great Elven warrior, Aragorn son of Arathorn, if you really must know. One who does not wished to be known for this deed."

"He must be a great hero indeed, to have walked a land plagued by death in search of a foreign wizard!"

Gandalf hm-ed, and attempted to shift everyone's attention away from the topic by kneeling next to the girl and observing her face closely. Her eyelids were shivering, no doubt she was dreaming rather intensely.

"Should we not wake her?" Said Legolas softly.

"We should," said Gandalf, "but I fear her reaction upon seeing our strange faces, and a frightened Istar is quite a dangerous thing. She is a fierce fighter, I am told, and that staff in her hands is a channel for her powers. Powers we know next to nothing about."

"What do you suggest then Gandalf? Should we wait here until she wakes? Matters are pressing over in Rohan, I believe the king Theoden is no longer in control of his actions."

"We will carry her"

There was a minute of stunned silence.

"Carry her?"

"Carry her."

"But..."

"No, Gandalf is right, Aragorn you will put her over your shoulder for a couple of miles, and then Legolas.."

"Gimli!" Interrupted Legolas with indignation, "We do not simply throw an Istar over our shoulder, this is the Lost Lady we are speaking of. Mithrandir obviously meant to carry her in the barge."

"That is what I meant indeed" said Gandalf, although something in the stiffness of his tone suggested otherwise.

Legolas and Aragorn both picked up an end of the barge and, on the count of three, they lifted it to their shoulders and started a slow walk back towards the plains of Rohan. Gimli, too short to help carry a side of the barge without causing the Istar to tumble over, made up for his lack of action by helpfully pointing out to the others whenever there was a branch, or a stone they might trip upon, and warning the two carriers whenever they were not carrying properly. He also delighted everyone with tales of Dwarven strength, how ten Dwarves was enough to carry gigantic statues of marble when hundreds of Men were needed.

Eventually, the five of them made it to the end of the forest and breathed in the dry and crisp air of Rohan. They deposited the barge onto the ground, as gently as they could, and both stretched rather comically. Gimli puffed and sat down with an exaggerated groan, as if he had been the one doing the hardest job all along. The girl remained asleep.

Gandalf called out Shadowfax, one of his oldest friends, one of those that were so old that he could not remember meeting them, and the magnificent horse appeared from nowhere and glided rather than galloped along the green grass and under the sunbeams. Hasufel and Arrod were exactly where their masters had left them. All three horses seemed wary and refused to walk any closer to the sleeping Istar.

"And what now, Gandalf? Should we attach the barge to the horses, let them pull it along?"

"The barge would be ripped to shreds" commented Aragorn somberly. "Perhaps it really is time to wake her, Gandalf."

The others nodded in agreement but the wizard ignored them superbly.

"Aragorn, Legolas, help me lift her out. Gimli, you will ride with Aragorn, and Legolas you shall ride with the lady Aërriel. Was she to suddenly wake up, I believe your fair face would be our best chance."

They all felt strongly against the unnecessary avoidance of the inevitable, the Istar was to be woken up eventually, but the joy they felt at seeing the old wizard again, and the hope he brought with him, prevented them from arguing further. They did as they were told.

They' rode day and night without stopping and eventually reached the city of Edoras. A banner had ripped from its pole and twitched helplessly on the ground, a bad omen in any land.

They rode up a few narrow streets, past the commoners' houses, up to the castle of the Horse Lords. As they rode up, people stared at them with gaunt faces and tight lips. They stared at each of them, the old man, the tramp, the Elf, the Dwarf, and the dead looking girl. And their eyes showed no emotion.

"There would be more life in a tomb" mumbled Gimli. "Do not drop the girl, master Elf! These faces look too hungry to be trusted."

Legolas discreetly rolled his eyes. The girl in his arms was as heavy as a corpse, but he could feel warmth through her clothes, and he knew she lived. He had looked at her pale face, the bright light forcing its way from behind the grey clouds above them seemed to bring her freckles out. They covered her face, her lips, her neck. He looked at them with confusion, for Elves had no freckles and he knew not if these were considered beautiful or ugly in the world of Men. Her hair was brown, her eyebrows thicker and less defined than an Elleth's, and her lips were full and pale pink. There was a single worry line cutting between her eyebrows. It was her only wrinkle though, and he guessed that she was young, but that her life had required her to age quickly. She was taller than most daughters of Men, and more athletic. He recognised a forced soldier in her, that is to say someone who had had to develop a soldier's physical strenght and endurance very quickly, ripping muscles painfully rather than gradually. He guessed her body would also bear the marks of starvation and malnutrition. But still, the roundish face, the pale lips, the chestnut hair, the freckles, it all somehow formed a striking figure which, he guessed, caused eyes to turn and stare. It was like with Aragorn, in fact, the physique was not much but the regality and the intensity of the presence moved it with such a grace, such a strenght, that all felt like the ranger towered above them by at least two heads. Even Giants, and even Elven lords. The Dwarf Gimli did not seem affected by it, though.

Gandalf possessed such a gift, Legolas realised. The old man could choose to be bent, and grey, but should he look up or straighten his shoulders, and it was a whole new tale. Truth was, the Prince could not wait to see what the woman, the Istar, would be like once she had awoken. She still clutched to that staff with kept on painfully hitting his hips or shoulders when he walked.

They reached the castle. All weapons were removed, except for Gandalf' staff which he passed for a help rather than a weapon, and for the girl' staff as well, which the guards tried unsuccessfully to extricate from her hands. When asked about her identity, the White Wizard said she was a tired traveller they had rescued from Orcs, but who had been poisoned and needed assistance. They somehow got inside. Aragorn gave his arm to Gandalf, and they walked towards the King, who was nothing more than a bundle of grey hair and cloth, his very voice shivering as if its owner was about to collapse into ashes. Sinister guards moved along the walls, menacing shadows not bothering to disguise their hostility. Something poisoned the air, Legolas felt it, it was oozing from the King like rot from a corpse. A greenish little man was clutching onto the King's throne and wispering fevresihly into the King's ear, and even Legolas could not quite make out what his words were. Guards were closing in, behind them, around them, and Legolas' hands itched for his daggers. He deposited the unconscious Istar onto the ground, knowing that no knight would harm a sleeping lady. Aragorn, Gimli and himself moved closer to each other, unconsciously placing thhemselves in a way which covered their backs. There was no fear from them, just a slight hint of excitement. The guards eyed them carefully.

Then, Grima, for that was the little man's name, grew so bold as to walk towards Gandalf and challenge him directly. The wizard raised his staff, and the flames of ... Descended upon them all. Legolas knew he would not miss his daggers.

After what had seemed to last an eternity, but again, his idea of time seemed rather disimilar to that of other people, Gandalf blinked back the aftermath of the exorcism and looked directly at the King, not at Saruman. Blue had returned to Theoden's eyes, and gold had returned to his hair. He breathed fresh, unpolluted hair, and his voice did not waver. He held his sword like the king he was, and the white lady's despair, noticeable from miles away, had now bloomed into wild hope. She looked at her uncle and knew she was no longer alone, a single, powerless flash of sanity in a castle eaten away by evil forces.

Gandalf let himself rejoice in the sight of justice being restored, and did not notice anything out of place until Gimli called out his name, softly, reverently, and he had to turn. And freeze.

Standing there, staff in hand, surrounded by whimpering guards, Aërriel, the Istar, the Lost Pilgrim, the Lady from the Sea now stood tall, very much awake and staring right back at him, fearless. She did not appear hostile, though, and he saw her gaze shift briefly to Grima Wormtongue, who was still being kept immobile by Gimli's iron grip. She looked back at the wizard, and Gandalf made an imperceptible nod of the head towards her, before directing his attention back onto the traitor.

They had urgent matters to tend to.


End file.
